


Concerning the 25th

by Psychomanteum (SilentP)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bigotry & Prejudice, Detainment and Detention Centers, M/M, Minor Injuries, Unfair Treatment of Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-18 02:36:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21737125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentP/pseuds/Psychomanteum
Summary: The full moon rises at seven in the evening on December 24th, 1996. This is, coincidentally, the first full moon that Sirius knows Remus Lupin is a werewolf. Not coincidentally, December 25th is the first day Sirius will spend three hours waiting outside a Ministry building.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 9
Kudos: 93
Collections: RS Small Gifts 2019





	Concerning the 25th

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Coriaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coriaria/gifts).



> Thank you to coriaria for the prompts! I used the "Christmas falls on a full moon" and "caught out in the rain/sleet" prompts for this one, and I think I managed to get the wildcard challenge in there as well. This is an AU, obviously, and the basics are: Remus never went to Hogwarts, and the Potters never died. Hope you enjoy the fic!

Christmas Day, 1996, dawns cold and miserable and wet. 

Sirius wakes at half past four to the sounds of rain pissing down. He knows he won’t get back to sleep, so he gets up and makes a cuppa instead. By the time it’s past five, he’s given in and has liberally seasoning the drink with brandy. 

By six, he’s making his way to the Ministry’s Transformation Detainment and Control Facilities. 

The clouds are so thick it’s impossible to tell if the sun has risen, and the rain is coming down harder than ever. Sirius waterproofs his traveling cloak with a charm, but it doesn’t warm the thing, and his boots still sink into the soggy ground the moment he sets foot on it. Sirius swears and lifts his head to look around at the gloomy surroundings. 

The building is an old castle fortress, dark and dreary. It looks like it was once a prison, maybe back in the times before Azkaban. There’s a charged feeling to the air, and an eerie silence around the place that must mean it’s under every sort of magical ward the Ministry can put up. There’s still an hour until the moon sets, but Sirius steps up to the rune-marked front gates, and receives a painful shock on his hand for his attempt to touch it. 

Hissing under his breath, Sirius retreats to nurse his flask of spiked tea and wait. 

-

Two hours later, the purple-black haze of night has lightened into a deep grey morning. The rain has kept steadily pouring down. By now, the mud at Sirius’s feet is more of a soup, and it doesn’t matter that his waterproofing charm has held, because he’s chilled to the bone and his fingers and toes are all going rapidly numb. 

A few people have gathered since the moon set—or so Sirius assumes, as the clouds have been too thick to check. They all avoid each other’s eyes and don’t say anything. Sirius has no frame of reference for this, but the crowd seems small compared to the size of the facility. Shouldn’t there be more people here? And what happens next? The moon has set, shouldn’t they be allowed inside? Sirius itches to test the doors again, but the scattered crowd seems resigned to wait, so he folds his arms under his cloak and tries to keep his shifting to a minimum. 

The pop of Apparation has Sirius tensing, but it’s only a man in Ministry robes, who’s appeared in front of the door. He looks around. He’s too short to look down his nose at most of them, but he still seems to be trying to make that attempt. Sirius immediately grits his teeth on the dislike. 

“This many?” the man says. “Well, then. Discharge proceedings will begin at nine o’clock. Do not attempt to enter the building until then.”

_ Nine! _ Sirius thinks, furiously. He’s already stepping forward, ready to complain or  _ something _ , but the official taps his wand to the gates, and slips inside. He’s not the only one who seems bothered by this. There’s some indistinct muttering from a shabby-looking witch on Sirius’s left, and an elderly man leans more heavily against his cane. 

Sirius grits his teeth. Remus is inside that building, probably hurt. Much of his research into werewolves has been utterly useless, but even the most sensationalist books seem to agree that while werewolves are dangerous while the moon is up, they’re at their most vulnerable in the immediate aftermath of their transformation back to human form. 

Will the Ministry even look after him if he’s hurt? Will they let Sirius in to see him? 

Sirius doesn’t trust the Ministry to have a sensible system set up, not for managing this. Their “secure Transformation facility” looks to be half ruins. But there’s the very real possibility that Sirius won’t be let in if he hasn’t been approved to take custody of a post-transformation lycanthrope. 

If he has to, he’ll wait out here all day. Or… 

Sirius feels around in his pockets, brushes his fingers against his sack of galleons. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures surely doesn’t pay much. He’s not above greasing some palms, if he has to. He’ll have to bite his tongue the entire time, but for Remus, he can do it. 

When the Ministry Official finally appears, he doesn’t reopen the gate, but appears inside of a little gatehouse near it. “First up!” he calls. 

Sirius strides forward. The official gives him an unimpressed look, clearly taking in his cloak and robes. Sirius grits his teeth so that he doesn’t scowl. “I’m here for Remus Lupin.” 

“Number?” the wizard harrumphs. 

Sirius blinks. “Pardon?” 

The man is scowling, now. “Do you have the registry number?” 

Sirius’s stomach gives an unsettled swoop, but he swallows it down and pastes on his best apologetic expression. “I’m sorry, I don’t. Could you…” 

The official grumbles, but starts flipping through some sort of catalog in front of him, and finally marks something off of a list. “Right. The number’s zero one one three.” He writes something down, then hands a wooden to Sirius. ”Room Twelve. You’ll need to come here to get the tracking spell removed before you leave. And bring the number next time.” 

“Of course,” Sirius says, through gritted teeth, and steps through the opening gates. 

The inside of the fortress is just as dire as the outside. There’s hardly any light, and Sirius can hear water dripping down. It also sounds eerily empty. There are no workers here, no sounds of people wandering the halls. Is it always like this? That’s a grim thought. Shivering, he taps his wand to the tag and it lights up, pointing him down a corridor. 

The further inside he goes, the more the place reminds him of a prison. All it’s missing is the Dementors. It’s even darker inside, and Sirius has to pull out his wand just to be able to navigate. He can see corridors, and he can see cell bars. He tries not to look any further. But when the tag leads him in the direction of one corridor in particular, he’s forced to finally look. 

The room—cell, really—has a crate set in front of it, but Sirius’s attention is first drawn to the bars. They gleam with silver under the wandlight, and just the sight of them has Sirius biting his tongue. It’s dim inside, but Sirius can see a shape hunched over what looks to be a battered cot. 

A shape that abruptly sits up and turns toward him. “What—Sirius?” 

Remus looks like hell. There’s no other way to put it. He’s always looked thin and worn and tired, but Sirius has never seen him this ill. In the stark glow from Sirius’s wand his skin is washed out and ashen, and his tight curls have somehow gotten flattened and snarled. One eye looks entirely bloodshot. There’s a mottling of what could be dirt or could be a bruise at one half-bare shoulder. There’s a sour taste in Sirius’s mouth. To see Remus for the first time in three weeks, in this state...

Remus is struggling upright on the cot, pulling the shredded remains of a blanket around himself. Sirius sees him reach for a wand that isn’t by his side. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Remus’s voice sounds ghastly, guttural and hoarse. It seems like he can’t decide between being angry and being horrified, and is feeling both at top intensity to make up for it. Sirius nearly puts his hands up, remembers that he’s holding his wand, and takes a step back instead, rather than appear threatening. Remus looks rather gutted by the motion, and sucks in a sharp breath. 

“I—” Sirius clears his throat. “I just thought, it’s Christmas.” 

Remus continues to stare. 

“It’s Christmas, and so I figured, you shouldn’t be stuck here alone.” 

Remus’s mouth thins. Then he makes a hissing sound of pain, as he brings up one hand to daub at a re-split lip. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” he says thinly, “but I think you should leave.” 

“Not yet,” Sirius meets Remus’s eyes. In the blue light from his wand, they look… normal. Sirius doesn’t know what he was expecting. Some sign of the Dark Creature that Remus was only hours ago? Something to disgust him? Instead, he just finds himself looking at Remus, who’s an ace hand at Defense, and who doesn’t own a robe that isn’t brown and frayed. Sirius’s stomach aches. 

He steps forward, using the tag to release the charm on the bars. Remus flinches, but Sirius only opens the crate. Remus’s things are inside, neatly folded. Sirius holds them out to him, wand on top. 

“Hex me after, if you like,” he says. 

Remus takes his wand first, then the bundle of his clothing. “Turn around,” he says. 

Sirius does. He bites his tongue on a joke about how he’s seen it all anyway—because he hasn’t. Remus doesn’t take his shirt off around him, and now Sirius knows why. 

“I thought you were hiding a Dark Mark,” Sirius tells the opposite wall. 

He hears the rustle of cloth cease. 

“I heard—well, it hardly matters any more. But that’s why.” He closes his eyes. He doesn’t think Remus will curse him now. Remus is the kind of man to curse someone to his face. 

“I wouldn’t.” Remus says. There’s a tremor to his voice. “I would never.” 

Sirius bows his head, his hands crossed over his chest. “Come back to James’,” he says. “You don’t have to forgive me yet, but he wants you there.” 

Another sharp inhalation. “He doesn’t know.” 

“He does.” Sirius almost turns around, then catches himself. “I’ll even bugger off for the afternoon, if you want. But he thinks you’re all right.” 

Remus laughs. It’s a harsh sound, one that becomes a cough halfway through. “He thinks a werewolf is all right.” 

This time, Sirius can’t stop himself. He turns. Remus is sitting on the edge of the cot, mostly dressed. He looks tired, still, but with his clothes on he looks less cold, less vulnerable. Or maybe it’s just the tension around his eyes, the lines next to his mouth. The silver in his hair stands out so much more in this cold light. 

Sirius wants to grab him and shake him, or kiss him. 

“Of course he does,” he snaps. “And Harry does, and Lily does, and I do, you bloody insufferable bastard!” 

It’s only the bars of the cell that force Sirius to draw up short. They’re too close together for him to reach through the way he wants to, so he fumbles, swearing, with the door, and throws it aside with a rattling screech. Remus jerks upright, stumbling in his half-tied boots. The point of his wand trembles as it’s raised. Sirius knocks it aside with the back of one hand. 

Remus’s hand is cold and scratched, the nails ragged and lined with dirt. He jerks, but does not pull away when Sirius’s hand curls around his wrist. 

“Why did you come here, Sirius.” 

Suddenly, looking Remus in the face is far too much. Sirius examines the frayed edge of his shirt cuff instead, and the contrast of his pale hand around Remus’s wrist. 

There’s so much he could say, about the things he read. The Ministry legislation pushed through by that horrid Umbridge. The accounts of the pain of transformation, with or without Wolfsbane potion. The glass he broke, when he found out where Remus would be forced to spend this and every full moon. How he’d realized that he could look Remus up by a sodding registry number, how anyone could do it and ruin his life. The words stick, chalky and uncomfortable, in his throat. 

“I miss you,” he whispers. “Werewolf or not, I miss you.” 

Remus jerks his wrist free. Anticipating a curse or a slap, Sirius flinches back, but Remus only turns away. 

“Three weeks,” he says. “I thought you were going to hunt me down, or ruin my life. And I still missed you, Sirius bloody Black.” 

The sharp bark of his laughter echoes too loudly in the confines of the cell, but Sirius doesn’t care. “So you’ll come?” 

Remus’s shoulders shake with a breath of laughter. He shakes his head, but there’s something lighter in his eyes. “Okay. All right, you bastard. I’ll come.” 

-

The rain hasn’t let up all day, and evening has turned the clouds into a dark paint-smear of colors, when Sirius notices that Remus has slipped away from the Potter’s kitchen. 

James catches his eye when he sets his empty tumbler aside. ‘Remus,’ Sirius mouths, and James jerks his head toward the living room, a small smile on his face. Sirius pats him on the shoulder as he makes his escape, ruffling Harry’s hair to make him grumble and his parents laugh. 

He nearly misses Remus, at first—it’s only when he steps around the couch that he notices the slumped form. 

Remus still looks exhausted and ill, and the ashen pallor still hasn’t left his face, despite the food he’s been given and the warmth of the nearby fire. He looks tired. Even in his sleep, he just looks tired. 

Slowly, Sirius lowers himself onto the couch, and gently maneuvers Remus until he’s leaning against Sirius’s shoulder. He starts massaging Remus’s neck, teasing gently at the springy curls at his hairline. 

“This isn’t going to get you forgiven,” Remus says, his voice gravelly with sleep. 

“I know.” Sirius keeps up the massage. “I’m sorry.” 

“I know.” Remus sighs, a little puff of air that Sirius mostly feels in the movement of Remus’s shoulders. 

Sirius thinks of everything between them, of the way his pulse pounds around Remus. Of the way no one else can drive him this crazy, make him so angry, or so happy. He thinks of Remus and his habits of carrying his things around with him, of the extension charms he keeps on his pockets to make sure he’s prepared for anything. 

He thinks of the words he could say, in this moment, then holds them back. It’s not the time. Not when Remus still isn’t ready to say he’s forgiven, not when he’s tired from the moon, and angry, just a little. Not when he’s boneless and vulnerable and clearly drifting off against Sirius’s shoulder. 

Instead, he turns his head and presses a gentle kiss into Remus’s hair, and hopes that he knows it means the same thing. 


End file.
